


Bites on the neon

by Petra



Series: Modern Love [6]
Category: Life on Mars (UK)
Genre: F/M, M/M, Multi, Threesome (FMM)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-14
Updated: 2011-04-14
Packaged: 2017-10-18 10:48:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/188155
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Petra/pseuds/Petra
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For all Gene’s extensive vocabulary, there are things he has trouble saying, some of which don’t even begin with L.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bites on the neon

**Author's Note:**

> For [](http://basaltgrrl.dreamwidth.org/profile)[**basaltgrrl**](http://basaltgrrl.dreamwidth.org/), who asked for it. Thanks to [](http://thatyourefuse.dreamwidth.org/profile)[**thatyourefuse**](http://thatyourefuse.dreamwidth.org/) and [](http://buggery.dreamwidth.org/profile)[**buggery**](http://buggery.dreamwidth.org/) for making sure it made sense.
> 
> [Gorgeous fanart of Gene & Annie](http://archiveofourown.org/works/193715), and of [Gene & Sam](http://archiveofourown.org/works/195093), by Basaltgrrl.

Monday, half ten, half cut, Gene pins Sam to the settee. "I want--you."

Sam grins. "I'm right here," and pulls him down for a kiss, working his other hand between them and going for Gene's zip.

Gene groans and checks the curtains--habit--before he pushes into Sam's hand.

*

Tuesday, eight-twenty. "Christ--I want to--fuck--"

Annie sets the last of the plates in the cupboard and hangs up the tea towel. "That sounds like a lovely way to spend an evening."

He buries his face in her hair with her legs round his waist, Sam whispering, "God, yes."

*

Wednesday doesn't end till Thursday at seven, staggering-tired, Sam exhausted-wired enough to need Gene to knock him down before he's on his knees begging, "Fuck me, fuck me--" half-dreaming.

He doesn't hear Gene say it too. Annie's left them to it, asleep in the other bedroom, or she might've noticed.

*

Friday comes with a whole-body ache and an extra sway in Sam's swagger. Gene wakes up at gone three in the morning in the living room, the telly still on, Sam asleep on Annie's shoulder.

He mouths the words silently, practicing, before he wakes them enough to get to bed.

*

Work to be done on Saturday, same as every other day, but beer-o'clock comes early.

Safe at home, he barely manages, "I want," before Annie's in his arms, kissing him, pushing him down, tugging at his hair like he's Sam.

He kisses Sam after, slowly, teasing with tongue and taste.

*

Whisky with breakfast on Sunday.

"What's wrong?"

"Shut it, Gladys."

"You know you can talk--"

"You too, Cartwright."

More whisky, more tea.

"Give over, Gene," Sam says, exasperated.

Gene frogmarches him into the living room, holds him against the wall, says it rough in his ear--"I want you to fuck me," like they're all short, easy words.

Sam arches back against him, not changing his mind. "Whenever you want."

Annie's nearly laughing. "Was that so difficult?"

He'd not say "Yes" to that, even to her. "Come on then, if you think you're hard enough."

Sam turns when Gene lets him and kisses him. "I'm not doing it in a rush."

It would be easier that way, no time to think, to have to feel every last caress and tease and hear the way Sam's voice goes hoarse when he says, "Turn over."

That ought to be the beginning of the end with a decent bloke, but Gene knows bloody well who he pinned to the wall. Pernickety as paperwork, that's his Sam, who says, "God bless Saran wrap," like Gene says "God save the Queen."

It's down to Sam Gene has the least idea what he means. "I didn't mean with your bloody tongue."

"It's all right," Annie says, and she'd know, wouldn't she. Gene's seen them at it, and he doesn't want to make the noises she made, those naked, hungry noises.

He swears instead, reminding Sam what he is that he'll do this, trying to hate himself for it enough that he won't come till he's good and ready.

No use doing it halfway, if they're going to do it at all. Somewhere after "Prissy little fairy boy" and "Arse-licking--fucking--yes--pervert--" Sam gives him a smack, like he's forgot who gives the smacking round here.

"Shut up a minute, or you'll have me wasting all this work."

Gene snorts into the pillow. "Not my fault you're a randy sod who can't--"

"Enough," Annie says, and he stops.

"Can you handle this?" Sam asks, and that's his finger, slim and agile.

As though Gene would say no, even if that was the truth, but it's fine. Better than fine, when Sam asks again, and the stretch sets in.

The trouble with Sam is he forgets how much it's meant to hurt. If he did it right, it would be easier, but he's got it in his head that Gene's going to want every last inch of him. If he wasn't so bloody good at it, Gene might be able to bear it more often.

It's not being on his knees that makes him angry--he'll do that for Annie if she so much as winks at him, or hold Sam against the wall and suck him till he's furious and begging. It's being open, held open with Sam's clever fingers, and having them tell him over and over that he looks good that way till he nearly believes them.

He'd believe anything else they said. They don't lie to him except about this. He can feel he's red in the face and he looks like exactly as much of a fudge-packing bum bandit as Sam ever does under him.

Nothing like himself.

"Stop it," Annie says, and kisses him before he knows what he's meant to stop. Stop talking, she meant. Stop telling the truth, the ugly truth, so they can pretend whatever it is they need to about this.

Sam rubs his lower back. "Anything you need," he says, the liar.

Annie nips at his lower lip and smiles at him like she'll respect him in the morning. "Ready?" she asks Gene.

He's been wanting it for weeks, and writhing for nigh on an hour, and he can't say more than "Yes," now, and that quietly.

It still doesn't hurt like it ought to with Sam pushing into him and making soft noises in his ear, trying to hold himself back. Hold them both back, or all three of them, as though that'll work with Annie's hand on his prick along with Sam's. She's got her other hand on herself, and he'd watch, or help, but he can't keep his eyes open.

The words that tell the truth about what they're doing come back again, at least in his head. He doesn't know he's saying them aloud till Annie kisses him, and Sam says, "Fuck--just--"

The knowledge and the fullness and the insistent reality of what they're doing make him shake, more than the burn in his muscles, more than the need to match Sam's speeding thrusts. He's not making the same sorts of noises Sam does--not begging for more, more, more, because more might kill him--and if Annie stops kissing him again he'll be damning them all three to hell and every last kind of filthy torture he can think of.

None of those tortures could be worse than needing this, than needing to be taken and filled up till he doesn't know how he'll keep breathing when it's over.

Sam bites at the back of his neck and Gene wonders when he ever picked that up--he doesn't do it to Annie, doesn't get a chance to do it to Gene--and says, "What do you bloody need, here? I can't--"

Nothing but this--he could've brought himself off at the first push of Sam's prick--but he couldn't have, not and face them after. Now--Annie stops kissing him, and he wants to tell her to keep on, but he's too busy biting his own tongue to keep from yelling. Or telling Sam he'd better not stop, because he's not stopping.

It's enough and more than enough, and Gene comes, too aware of Sam and too aware of himself to make a single sound. He can't. They'd hear it, and they'd know how much he needed this.

"Christ," Sam says in his ear, winded as if Gene's just punched him, and his rhythm goes all to hell before he goes limp, draped sweaty over Gene's back.

Annie kisses Gene lightly. "It's all right," she says, as if she knows what he hasn't said.

"It bloody isn't," he says, and reaches back to pat Sam's hip. "Shift your arse before we end up glued together for good, Sammy-boy. I don't want to give forensics a puzzle to work out."

Sam snorts and kisses his shoulder before he moves--and there's the hurt, too late and brief to do any good. "Are you going to ask, next time?"

"Next time?" Gene needs a shower and a nap, and a good six hours alone before he has to look either of them in the face so he can lie to them properly.

Trouble is, they're right there, and they're bloody good detectives.

Annie hands him one of the washcloths Sam insists on keeping nearby, as if sex shouldn't be filthy. "The next time you want this," she says, as though it's nothing to her one way or the other.

Sam eases himself down, rubbing at his thighs like he does after a run. "I'd say 'Anytime,' but I think I need lunch first."

Gene gets up. "I'd better go in for a few hours." CID's no place to go to be alone, but it's better than here.

Sam catches his arm before he gets far enough from the bed. "It was all right, though?"

It was bloody brilliant. Gene shrugs. "I'll let you know when I can sit down again."

Sam smiles.  


**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [I want you to fuck me](https://archiveofourown.org/works/195093) by [basaltgrrl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/basaltgrrl/pseuds/basaltgrrl)
  * [Christ--I want to--fuck--](https://archiveofourown.org/works/193715) by [basaltgrrl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/basaltgrrl/pseuds/basaltgrrl)




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